


Not Today

by johnnywalkerblu



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4887154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnywalkerblu/pseuds/johnnywalkerblu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was commented on another of my posts that I should take on a Fet/Dutch fanfic for Episode 11, Dead End.  So here's the first chapter...</p><p>Second chapter up...</p><p>Chapter three ahoy...</p><p>Chapter 4...</p><p>Sorry it took so long, but Chapter 5 and finito.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As soon as Fet swings the truck around the corner onto 49th Street, the dread that has filled him since the dickhead detective told them where Dutch had been taken expands again. It’s the National Guard. The Mayfield is the goddamned National Guard post.

Even as he’s rolling down the window to take a better look, he knows that something’s rotten here. Either dickhead was full of shit, or this situation is far, far worse than any of them anticipated. He tries to hold the frustration out of his voice, because Eph and Nora are here with him, they’re trying, but it snaps through him anyway, “Now what!?”

The other two exchange a glance, and Vasya can see that same frustration, well maybe not the same exactly, more of a sense of responsibility, on the doc’s face as he pushes for them to get out of the bread truck and walk around the place. Eph reiterates that the guy said the Mayfield and this is the only one there is. _So less cursing the darkness and more candle-lighting_ , is the imperative behind his words. _Didn’t take you for a quitter, Fet._

No, that’s right, no quit in him where Dutch is concerned. Partly because he’s realizing, little by little, that he loves her, and partly because she’s so sure that someday, the day he sees right down to her soul probably, he’ll turn his back on her. If there’s one thing he’s absolutely determined never to do, it’s give her another reason to think she’s unworthy.

So he grabs his shit and steps out of the truck, pulling his worried mind together and trying to approach this logically. If he were going to take a person into a building, where would he go to do it?

But the alley beside the hotel is deserted, not even an overflowing dumpster. The Guard have definitely been policing their area. They make another turn, into the little half street that is mostly loading area, and Nora spots it, the NYPD car, all its doors standing open.

It makes no sense, being there, just…just…sitting there. Then Nora, who’s been prospecting in the back seat of the cruiser, comes up with Dutch’s blue striped toque. Eph suggests that a switch might have been made here, but that logic Vasya’s trying so hard to use, and that ball of dread in his belly, tell him that’s not the answer. 

There’s no rhyme or reason to why he looks up, maybe just trying to get a better feel for the problem, but the hotel is there in all its monolithic Neo-Renaissance glory, and the oddity of it makes him feel like not only about five pounds of ice, but the whole damned refrigerator, have joined the dread, way down in his gut.

“Staring us right in the face…” he mutters. It’s dark. Completely, absolutely, terrifyingly dark. One whole side of the place. He remembers his father sending him here to sketch the old lady, years ago now, instructing him to try to peel away what the later builders had done to modernize her, and get to the roaring-twenties glory. Once he’d spent the day and had a pile of work, he’d been dispatched to the public library and the architecture stacks that he knew like old friends, to compare his vision to reality.

He doesn’t remember any more than that, but he explains what he does know to Eph and Nora, both of them letting him go on until he admits that he doesn’t really have a valid explanation for the dark side. 

Eph cuts off any further discussion with his customary lack of tact. “All right… how do we get inside the place?”

There’s an interesting question, and he recalls a fact that he read in Architectural Digest, and confirmed once he had carte blanche access to the world beneath the city streets. Things are looking up, friends and neighbors. It’s a whole new deal, you might say. “Franklin Delano Roosevelt.” he growls triumphantly, heading toward the nearest subway entrance at a run.

^^^^^^^^^^^^

Having been on the receiving end of a New York City cop’s pepper spray once upon a time, Dutch isn’t surprised that it works, but she is surprised that it works so damned well, as Eichorst’s horrific squealing thunders through the tiny room. The kick in the face makes her feel all kinds of better as well.

Frisking him for the key is another thing entirely, and it makes her stomach turn to have to touch him, but she knows if she doesn’t get out now a fate worse than death, a fate even worse than being turned, awaits her. But she’s not going to think about that, what he was trying to do to her. She may have nightmares about it for the rest of her days, but she’s can’t let it get in the way of survival.

She fumbles a bit once she’s got the small ring, but she stabs the key into the lock on the second try and when it snaps open her heart soars and she runs like the fiends of hell were after her.

The corridor outside Eichorst’s room confounds her for a long minute. How can a hotel be so dark? How did no one notice her being brought here? Why is there so much shit on the floor?

She hears the creak of the door behind her and almost jumps out of her skin, picking a left hand turn without conscious thought, getting her long legs into motion, hoping that strigoi are just as incapacitated as the long-ago her was by that chemical burn. 

_We’ve reached cruising speed, captain,_ she thinks as she sprints down the faded carpet. But the dark and the terror conspire against her, the folded edge of a loose piece of runner catching her, the nasty, concealed upturned carpet tack burying itself in the ball of her left foot and sending her sprawling.

Her own blood makes her ill. That’s what she should have told Eichorst when he asked for something no one knew about her. It’s a weakness that she doesn’t like to admit she has, one that always seemed like something a pushy, bisexual, outre type like she’s always tried to be would never allow to exist. 

And she can’t allow it now. There’s no room for being queasy. No room for any shit at all. Only room for fighting. Somehow that makes her strong enough to grab the sharply rounded top of the tack and yank, letting her fear and anger out in a harsh yelp of pain as blood seeps down her foot. 

Leaping to her feet she stumbles down the corridor, trying to move as quickly as before, putting the jolt of pain that jumps up her nerves every time she tries to push off that left foot out of her mind. That’s when the utterly blank, utterly incongruous brick wall in the middle of the hallway smacks her in the face.

 _The fuck?_ , passes through her mind like a streamer. Did that wormy asshole take her through the fucking rabbit hole or what? Confused again, nerves sizzling, her exhausted body trying to keep up with everything she’s asking from it, she backs away and shambles down the branch, wishing for a way down, a way out, something. 

Or an elevator. Just seeing the sign makes it easier to breathe and she thumps the button, hard. It doesn’t light, and that tells her brain something that it doesn’t want to hear. _There’s no way out of here. No. Way._

Shudders wrack her as she shouts at the stubbornly closed doors and thumps them with her fist. She’s not dying today. She’s not turning today. And she’s sure as shit not letting that thing put his stinger anywhere today. 

But the next opening is bricked over as well and she slaps at it, sweat and tears leaking down her sticky, dirty face. There’s got to be something. Some way. Fucking Eichorst has to get out of here somehow for fuck’s sake. 

Her shadow falls on the yellow walls as she lurches back down the empty corridor, forcing herself onward, holding down despair so black that even pausing to examine it will paralyze her.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

About three hundred feet below her, Fet is in the same boat. He’s not allowing himself to imagine what his woman might be going through. Doing that is the path to madness. He has to keep on. Always on. Always forward. 

His mouth is running. That happens when he gets nervous. He’s telling Eph and Nora all about how the president used to use the dead end lines. How there should be a passage down here. Somewhere. He knows he’s seen the damned door plenty of times, but he can’t focus. Not right now.

Flashing his light up, a door appears like salvation itself and he reaches to grab the handle. Now he can get to her, protect her, like he should have been doing today.

Nora’s calm voice breaks into his jumbled thoughts as he tries to force the lock with one powerful hand. “Careful. That looks like a strigoi passage.”

“Exactly…” Now that he actually looks at the door, he knows it’s the wrong one. But he needs…he just needs…to… He cuts the hopeless thought that wants to be born in his brain off by getting his feet moving. “…let’s go.”

After a moment he begins to jog down the tunnel; Eph and Nora struggling to keep up with his gargantuan stride. If asked, he wouldn’t able to explain why he started to run, any more than a bull can explain the instinct that makes it charge. 

Fifty feet later, adrenaline dumps into his bloodstream when he sees the darkly oxidized signage by an unassuming wood-framed door. “We got it.” he growls, lifting a size fifteen boot and getting that impediment out of his way, his right arm blocking the panel from bouncing back. Close now. Close. He can feel her need.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

_I’m tiring._

It’s a desolate thought, and Dutch forces herself to concentrate on the feel of the carpet, the number of steps it will take her to reach the next door, anything, anything but her horrible weakness.

Then behind her, and not far enough behind her, not far enough at all, comes Eichorst’s jovial, taunting voice. “Where are you Fraulein Velders?”

Her attempt at a burst of speed is pitiful, and her heart feels like it’s banging against her ribs as she tries to put more distance between herself and her pursuer, panting like a run-out thoroughbred. 

The German, however, sounds like a walk in the park. “Please, stop running.”

Hate so red and poisonous that it blinds her floods through her body as that voice closes the gap. “There is no way to go.”

_Not getting me, motherfucker. Not getting me._

Hope throbs through her at the sight that greets her next turn. _Stairwell. Down. Down and out. Then Fet. Somehow. Safe as houses there, with Fet._ And she slams up against the bar, hurtling down the stairs as fast as she can.

This is better, this is so much better, there’s a way. But her heart freezes in her chest when she hears the fire door above her creak open. “Your shampoo, Fraulein…” Eichorst purrs, gloating, “…and your blood.”

_He isn’t hurrying._

Dutch doesn’t let that bulletin from her brain stop her, but she does hear herself begin to whimper like a trapped animal. There’s a reason that asshole is so calm, and she should face it. Since this fucking vampocalypse began she’s wondered how she would face her inevitable death. 

“I’m almost there…” he sings out, as if she were waiting to pour his goddamned tea. 

She moves faster.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Fet runs, thanking his endless days of traipsing up to penthouses and down through manholes for the stamina he needs to get this done. Dutch is so near he can almost smell her, that warm citrusy scent that’s embedded in his pillows now. The one he rolls over to inhale from behind her ear when he wakes up feeling abandoned in the middle of the night. 

_Alive, alive, she’s alive._

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The sense of loss that floods her when she rounds the last corner and fetches up against yet another solid mass of red brick almost knocks Dutch flat. There was never any need to worry about Nikki and Fet, about what direction her life should take. Her life is a dead end. This dead end. Right here.

It’s not right. It just isn’t. There are so many things she needs to do, to say. Sobs burst out of her, and she rails at the unforgiving wall. “No! No!!!! No, please!” All her pounding has no effect and her breathing drops to shallow, shaky inhalations as she hears the German approaching, flight response still teeming in her blood. 

But’s there’s absolutely nowhere to go, and as he rounds the corner she screams out, “GET AWAY FROM ME!!!”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Nora’s dark head jerks up as she hears Dutch scream, the words terrifying enough, but the utter, mindless fear behind them setting her shaking. “Did you hear that?”

Standing on the stairs above her, the bull resumes his charge. “Come on!”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Eichorst doesn’t strike, and Dutch screeches at him again to leave her alone, even though she knows he’s not done with her. He’s nowhere near done.

He’s going on about the lovely chase she’s given him tonight, wanting to see the surrender, the knowledge of her failure, of her own imminent demise in her eyes.

_Not so fast, you slimy fuck._

“I hope you choke on me!” she bellows, throwing herself at him, meaning to tear that hideous stinger right out of his throat.

The floor rushes up to meet her almost before she realizes she been struck, and her face goes numb, her eyes tearing. Then she’s in his clutches again, his right hand clamped around her left ankle like a manacle. And there’s that smarmy tone again, that ‘isn’t this fun?’ tone that reduces her to nothing. “Time for us to be going.”

With a complacent smile, Eichorst begins to drag her up the stairs.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Failure is not an option.

His arctic blue eyes widen and Fet snarls, “No!” as they hit the same blank expanse of brick that Dutch ran up against such a short time ago. “NO!!”  
Eph jerks Nora back as the huge man bellows “DUTCH!” and attacks the brick wall with a vengeance, hammering quick hard strokes with his rebar, each within an inch of the previous strike, no nonsense; pure brute force on display now. Both Eph and Nora have to admire his persistence, and they each are struck for a moment by the determination they’re witnessing as he roars, “Dutch! I’m coming for you!”

Brick dust and chunks fly as he works and in less than a minute he’s battered his way through. He dials back a bit as he reaches a stick of dynamite out of his pack and fishes his lighter out of his pocket. “You all might want to get back…”

The blast is almost deafening in the stairwell, but it doesn’t slow the big man down at all. He’s up and through the breach, almost flying up the stairs, chin down, his mouth set in a firm line that speaks more clearly of his distress than histrionics would. They’ve both learned to watch out when the big guy gets quiet. 

Dutch’s screams are coming more clearly to their ears than ever, and Fet hits the lever on the door marked 14 like a linebacker on his way to the quarterback, slamming it open against the wall. He doesn’t slow to make sure they get through after him, focused on his woman’s pleading wails. 

Eph gives it everything he has just to keep up when they round the corner and Fet sees Eichorst dragging Dutch by the leg like she were any other prey, as calm as if he were taking a leisurely stroll. There’s no time to stop and consider what to do, and Fet doesn’t look like waiting until they consult anyway, pulling a silver grenade out of his pack just as quickly as he came up with the explosives.

The big man’s aim is perfect, maybe a little bit of fate giving them a helping hand, since it’s been so unforgiving most of the damned day. Unfortunately, the German gets some help too, because his keen ears pick up the soft thunk of the metal hitting the carpet and he has time to drop the tall blonde’s foot to the hall runner and bolt for his apartment.

Dutch bolts too, once she’s loose. Flipping herself over and getting to her feet in the space between heartbeats. The silver is still falling like glittering snow when she gets close enough to launch herself at Fet.

Big as he is, catching one hundred and thirty pounds of sobbing, terrified female stops him in his tracks, and he enfolds her instantly, pressing his forehead tight to hers, murmuring soothingly. “You okay? You alright, love? Yeah?”

Eph and Nora don’t stop to ask, rushing through the blast path to pursue Eichorst. They come up empty, as they were almost certain they would. The big worm is always prepared for any eventuality, and he’s escaped.

Concern is apparent on both their faces when they return to find Fet still cradling Dutch in his arms, holding her as close as possible to his heart while she cries, clutching his collar, his shoulders, his neck, shivering uncontrollably, her long hair matted and hanging in her face.

“We need to get out of here…” Nora reminds urgently, not wanting to break into the moment the two are sharing, but knowing that Eichorst’s escape plan might be wider ranging than they anticipate. Getting caught up here by an army of strigoi is certain death; the only way down is the way they came up, which is incredibly close quarters.

“She stepped on carpet tack sometime…” Fet murmurs. “…she’s not all that sure when. So you two are gonna need to block for me while I carry her down.”

Having seen him on the way up, neither of them doubt that he can and will carry Dutch down fourteen flights, so Eph draws his blade and leads the way to the fire door, scouting down a floor before giving the all clear.

There’s nothing and no one on the stairs, in the street, or around the bread truck, and Fet sets Dutch’s bare feet on his right boot while he gets the keys out of his pocket and hands them over to Eph. Her long arms go around his middle during this process, locking tightly there, and it takes a minute’s encouragement to convince her that the world won’t tip if she lets him go for just a second.

He gathers her up again as Nora opens the back door for them, and he steps up into the echoing space, letting her down onto his foot again as he slips out of the straps of his backpack and sets it in the corner. Doffing his big green coat, he wraps it around her like a grass skirt, pivoting so that he can sit on the wheel well, and welcoming her down.

Eph starts the truck, looking over his shoulder to see what’s happening, waiting while a shivering Dutch surveys the situation and then perches on the cold metal next to Fet, pushing his arms wide until she can lie down on him, pillowing her head in his lap. 

Even over the rumble of the engine, they all hear her long wavering sigh as she lets go some of the horrible tension she’s been carrying, now that she’s safe. And Eph feels the lump in his throat grow even more choking as his erstwhile partner in crime begins to cry again, her soft weeping counterpointed by Fet’s deep voice as he seeks to calm her.

Nora takes a look back at the pair and turns to him with a pained frown. “Go. She needs to be home.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Please don’t let go of me, alright? Please don’t.” Even to her own ears, Dutch’s voice sounds hoarse and nasal from crying, but at least she’s finally able to do something besides weep like an overflowing bathtub.

The bread truck is easing to a stop outside Fet’s warehouse, and she pushes herself to a sitting position beside him, almost on top of him actually. Which he doesn’t seem to mind at all. Which is good. Because she needs his strength right now.

When she looks that easy smile she loves is on his face. “I will never let go of you.”

“I know.” Clutching his hand between hers, she gathers it up and presses it between her breasts, where he can feel her beating heart. “Thank you. Thank for you believing, for…for coming to save me, for not giving up.”

“I got no ‘give up’. You should know that by now.” The teasing is gentle, and he brushes her grimy hair back just as gently, drawing her in to place a kiss on her brow.

She smiles shakily, and bursts into tears again, crawling into his lap and clinging to him like a limpet on a rock.

“Shhh. Shhh, dushen’ka. You’re safe now. That asshole’s never gonna get his hands on you again. He gets within shouting distance of you, he’s going to have to reattach his head, that creepy motherfucker, okay?”

Dutch nods jerkily, hiding under her lover’s chin, tucking herself up so small that she'll become invisble. She’d get in his shirt pocket if she could.

They sit, unmoving, as Eph and Nora get out. Fet can still feel her breathing against his neck when the back door squeaks open, but she doesn’t make a move. 

“I want you to carry me…” she whispers in his ear finally, voice trembling. “Will you carry me please?”

“Course I will. Where do you want me to take you?” His arms tighten around her as he prepares to get up.

“Right to the bathroom please. I want out of these clothes. And I think I need to be sick.”

“Please warn me if you’re gonna do the second part before I get you there, alright?”

Dutch feels his warm lips on her forehead again as he presses a tender kiss to her sticky skin. “Promise. But no stops.”

“No stops.”

The big man steps quickly down from the back of the truck and strides toward the door, shielding her from the cold wind and any prying eyes, passing right by the professor and Zach, who are both standing just inside in attitudes of great concern.

“What…” Setrakian begins. 

But Fet just shakes his head and moves past him and to the facilities, knocking the door open with his elbow and setting her on her feet on the chilly tile. He takes his jacket from around her and tosses it back out the door. “Tell me what to do for you.”

“I’d like a drink…” Then the image of the poor policeman, choking on a half-liter of Schnapps assails her and she shivers.

His deep voice is heavy with concern and he puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Dutch?”

“A drink of water would be good. And maybe some soup or something for when I get out.” Her shaking hands descend to the hem of her long sweater. “And clean clothes. These are going straight to ashes.”

Fet nods, thumb caressing the bare skin over her collarbone through the hole pulled in the garment’s weave. “You want me to go, or you want me to stay here and…” His voice drops another several tones, and she hears what must have been there for a while but went unacknowledged, mired as she is in her own torment. He loves her. This gentle, solid, capable, private man loves her. A lot. He knows it all, he sees it all, and still he loves her. “…protect you?”

A sudden picture of Eichorst crawling through the window above the toilet while she’s in the shower washing up leaps into her mind and her gorge gets the better of her.

Luckily Fet recognizes the symptoms and helps her not to embarrass herself too much, flipping the toilet’s lid and seat upward and gathering her hair in his fist while she leans forward and finally gets rid of all that awful pineapple.

There’s really nothing like having someone to flush for you when you feel like such complete dog shit that you can’t even get away from your own mess. 

Her tears begin again as Vasya lets go the handle, steadies her against his ribs and leans to grab a hand towel and wet it under the tap.

Then he’s washing her face as you would a child, slow, calming strokes, cool on her cheeks, soothing across her mouth. She hears the soft teasing note in his voice as he taps her chin with his thumb until she opens her eyes. “Wish I could offer you that nice warm pool again…but all I got is a dribbly shower.”

Dutch knows he’s trying to take her to a better place, and she appreciates it more than she can ever explain to him, but all she can offer him right now is a shaky smile and another onslaught of sobbing.

“Okay.” he whispers, tossing the towel in the sink and leading her over to the stall. “You just stand right there a second…” The shower splashes to life next to her and she can hear him fiddling with the center knob, trying to get to that perfect cool-but-not-cold she tried to convince him is the only temperature for a sane person’s shower the one and only time they attempted to share.

“That should be about where you like it.” 

Opening her eyes to him shaking water off his hand, she nods and lifts her arms. It might not be the smartest thing she’s ever done, considering the path she’s taken since Nikki came back into her life, but she knows he won’t be judgey or weird about it. “Can you help me with this?”

“Sure.” 

Why does he have to have such wonderful hands? Always so dexterous and warm. Dutch bites her lip softly as one broad palm slides up her clammy back, pulling her sweater up, while the other eases each cuff in turn over her hands. He’s extra careful as he maneuvers the fabric over her head, making sure not to catch her earrings, or let any of the smelly patches hit her just washed face.

Then her no-longer-favorite sweater is just a heap on the tile. “You really want me to burn it?”

“You’re too fucking right I do.” she snaps as she wriggles out of her sweated-through sports bra and tosses it on top.

When he doesn’t answer, she looks up, and sees him trying like hell not to admire her, standing there in just her dark blue boy-shorts. That look in his eyes is more salve for her wounded spirit, and after she’s pushed her panties down and kicked them onto the pile, she steps forward and slips into his arms again, accepting all the comfort he can offer.

After a long moment of pure togetherness, he releases her and prods her over the cement lip and into the shower, tugging the curtain closed after her.

Fet is just picking up the pile of her clothing, considering how to make sure he disposes of it without burning the building down, when he hears Dutch gagging again.

By the time he crosses the ten feet that separate them, her shaking hands are thrust through the gap between the tiled enclosure and curtain’s flapping edge. Clutched in her fists are the shampoo and conditioner that she uses every day. “Take these too. Please get these away from me. Ask Nora if she has some I could borrow.”

Mystified, he accepts the dripping containers, the curtain that she’s just jerked closed to cover another cloudburst of tears telling him that everything he can do for her just might not be enough.


	3. Chapter 3

The water in the shower is close to perfect, just warm enough to make her feel clean without making her feel like a lobster on its way to the platter, and she tips her head back, letting the spray sluice through her tangled hair. It’s warm, it’s quiet, and she’s secure in the knowledge that a man who would die for her with no hesitation at all is standing guard. 

The tension slowly drains out of her frame as she lets the water start to wash the whole horrible evening away. She means to reach for her own satsuma body wash, but finds her hand is drawn to the clean white bar that’s sitting next to it. The lovely smell of peppermint castile fills her head as she lathers the bar between her hands, making her feel as though the man that uses this is still right there beside her.

It was only the second day she’d known him, when he came back to the pawnshop with his all his special equipment in his big dusty green backpack, that she’d first caught this subtle scent. Rubbing her soapy hands up her arms, she recalls her own undeniable interest at finding it was the big guy that smelled so good. Especially so, since that first night everything had ended up smelling of gasoline and dead strigoi.

What a day that had been, going from a fairly normal food run with Nikki to a decidedly horrifying encounter with a shit ton of monsters, including one that used to be a friend. That was the point, she knows in her heart, that turned what would have been a chance encounter into a full stop detour. And she has no doubt, if Fet hadn’t been there, Ronnie would have stung her, and she’d be part of the hive mind now.

A wavery smile touches her lips as she thinks of the many times her sexy ratman has been right where she’s needed him. Not just that night in her apartment, but when he’d charmed his way into Stoneheart with her, when they’d fought back to back at the Vestry, and when they’d rained silver down in the health club to the accompaniment of a muzak Bee Gees tune. 

A light blush stains her cheeks as she rubs his soap across her belly and up over her breasts. She’d meant to tease him a little that night, get him to open up some more, maybe get a look at the span of those shoulders without all the layers of clothes.

The pool had seemed like an opportunity that was just too good to pass by, especially when he admitted that he couldn’t swim. And then, the only word her brain had been able to conjure when he dropped his dark gray Calvins and stepped down into the water was ‘magnificent’.

Dutch closes her eyes and rubs the slippery white bar up her throat, inhaling the lovely tang. They’d dispensed with even the appearance of a lesson when he asked her what she’d do if he couldn’t breathe. The kissing was so delicious it almost stopped her heart.

Though the soft suggestion he’d whispered in her ear after the tasting and caressing had them equally aroused had given her pause, when he came back from the laundry room with a cart full of clean towels, and produced a condom from his wallet, leaning down to offer her a hand up out of the water, she’d felt such a barrage of tenderness and lust that the chances they wouldn’t make love had fallen to absolute nil.

They’d done the deed right there on the tile, in a nest of bleached towels, where god and everyone could have seen them if they wanted to come by and look. When he mounted her, she’d clutched his shoulders and rocked up to him, wanting everything he could give. Vasya, in turn, had given everything she could handle and then some.

It had been the kind of good that makes you ache on lonely night. The kind of good that left them both enervated, wrapped in one another’s arms and snickering like they’d just had a couple shots of something highly illegal.

Not until they were dressing, preparing to head back his place, and most definitely his bed, had she spared a thought for the last person who’d made her feel that gloriously alive. And she’d only thought of Nikki then because she’d been thinking about that night in Queens, trying to get her memory to cough up her first sight of Fet, and what she’d thought of him at that very moment.

Dutch opens her eyes to the streaming water and steps under the flow, letting it rinse the lather from her body. She’d cheated on Nikki that night with Vasya, has gone on cheating, no way around it.

_But you thought she was dead…_ her conscience reminds quietly. _You, at least, looked for her. You didn’t hide in the closet._

Clenching her fists beneath her chin, she forces herself to own up to her behavior, telling the cold tile in a furious whisper, “I didn’t put up any posters either. I didn’t ask any questions. I jumped and ran. At the first sign of trouble, just fucking bail. Dutch at her finest.”

And then, then, when Nikki did turn up. “You hurt him…” she quavers, biting her lip hard to keep from screaming it. “The one person you can absolutely be yourself with, the only one you can trust in this whole fucked up universe...and you shit on him.”

Not just that, oh no. She’d had to go all the way to unredeemable bitch by being unable to stand up to Nikki about the feelings she had for Fet. And so she’d cheated again. He knows it too, she can feel that. He absolutely knows that she and Nikki are back to being more than roommates.

Tears burn in her eyes again, but these have nothing to do with the larger threat, only with her own dilemma. She does love Nikki. Nicola Taylor, as she’d introduced herself while Ronnie and his flatmate Rick poured everyone their drink of choice and got the party going. It had been just as quick, just as deep and integral as her feelings for Fet. They’d slept together that night, been living together within two weeks. 

Sure there were fights, mostly caused by her, she thinks, since she had done her best to resist being controlled in any sort of reasonable fashion. Nikki didn’t like all the hardware and the endless loops of concentration required for writing cracking good code. She hated the whispered phone calls and the furtive people who would come to the door with an envelope of cash in exchange for a flash drive. Sometimes Dutch had got the feeling that Nikki only liked half of her, only the day-Dutch. Night-Dutch exasperated her, upset her, and frightened her too.

Taming those parts of herself that Nikki didn’t appreciate had been a fool’s errand, and every time she went through spate of trying to be what her partner wanted she’d felt like she was being forcibly suffocated. They fought. They made up. Nikki nagged. Dutch tried. They fought. And so on.

It’s only now, now that she’s been through the frustration and the fear for someone she loves, that’s going to do what he’s going to do, no matter sanity or anyone else’s opinion, has she begun to understand.

A clear sense of what she needs to do, not just for Nikki, not just for Fet, but for herself is rising in her. There’s a hard lesson in what she went through tonight, one she needs to take, one she needs to internalize and build on.

She’s not a person who prays, doesn’t believe in that kind of thing, but standing there in the shower, tears streaking down her face, she asks whatever white power there is in the world, whatever there is that opposes things like the Master, to help her be strong.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“Is she all right?” Nora is standing at the stove, stirring a pot full of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle.

Fet tosses Dutch’s clothes and the two bottles into the heavy metal trash barrel he uses for industrial projects. “I think she is. Physically anyway.” He nods at the pan and gives her a smile. “Thanks. Did you hear her ask for it?”

“No. But it’s so cold out, I thought she might need something warm. I know I would.”

“Did she tell you what happened to her, Mr. Fet?” Setrakian is sitting at the table next to Eph, who has a fresh bottle of vodka and the house’s only shot glass parked in front of him, about two drinks in by the look of it.

Big hands fisted in his pockets, Fet grumbles, “No. And I didn’t ask. Whatever it was it scared the living hell out of her.”

“But…” the old man begins.

“We checked…” Eph pours himself another knock and eyes Nora through the clear liquid. “Take that back…I checked. I lit her up while we were figuring out how to get past the National Guard. No nicks and no worms.”

Setrakian’s voice is strong but his gaze has gone distant. “She is to be commended. Most people who have come up against Eichorst throughout the years have not lived to tell the tale.”

“She’s tough.” There’s such emotion in Fet’s voice that they all look at him. “She fought. And she’d have fought him to the very end. But she’s right about at the end of her endurance, okay? Almost out of gas. So I don’t want anyone asking her questions until she’s ready.”

The big man’s steady bright blue gaze pins each of them in turn until he gets the answer he wants. “Good. I got to get back to her. Nora?”

“Hm?”

“Have you got something I can take her to use on her hair? She made me get rid of that flowery one she…”

It strikes them all at the same moment, the only possible reason her products had to go.

“My god…” Nora whispers. “He…oh damn him straight to hell, that piece of shit. I’ll go get it.”


	4. Chapter 4

Everyone stops what they’re doing when the bathroom door squeaks open. Fet takes a deep breath and pushes himself up off the counter, gaze fixed on the corner where Dutch will appear. It’s been a good half hour since he took her Nora’s shampoo, which, being as no nonsense as Nora herself, smelled like the herbs it was made with. He also delivered one of his own sweatshirts and a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms donated by Eph.

She’d still been tense and upset, but her body language when she opened the curtain and took the bottle he was holding, had been much closer to the Dutch he knows and loves. 

He can hear the soft pad of her footsteps on his concrete floor, slowing as she approaches the point where she knows they must all be waiting. A smile touches his lips as he senses her pause to gather herself. Most people would still be shivering in the corner, but Eichorst picked the wrong victim this goddamned time. She’s a warrior, his woman.

A warm rush of pride fills him as she makes her entrance, fluffing the long strands of her still damp curls away from her face. He’s spent twenty-five years of his life wondering if he’d ever find a person who could keep up, and now that he’s located her, it has to be in the middle of a nightmare, but he’s never loved her more than when she gets her chin up and gives him a brave smile. 

The vulnerability comes back with the crash of Zach sliding open his door. Dutch grabs for the wall, her fingers locking on the chain link. 

The kid reacts quite possibly better than any of the rest of them could have, going straight to her and wrapping his arms around her waist. “I’m sorry, Dutch. I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

The pain in his voice speaks to the twelve-year-old she remembers being, trying to keep herself together when her world was spinning apart, and she hugs back, resting her chin on his head, more grateful than she can say for the opportunity to give a little comfort, as well as take it. “Thanks kiddo. I know you didn’t. It’s perfectly all right, okay?”

After one last squeeze and a ruffle of his hair, she releases him and continues on her way to the kitchen, her gaze flitting from one of them to the other. “Did I forget to put on my clothes or something? Cause none of you are looking at me. Or am I poisonous somehow?”

Setrakian speaks first, looking up into her eyes. “Far from that, child. You are a hero.”

Dutch shakes her head, stepping carefully around the chair to seat herself. “I believe the Ukrainian gentleman to your left…”

“No.” The professor reaches across the table and takes her hand, that imperiousness that is so a part of him coming to the fore. “You. You are still alive. You could not expect to be rescued and yet you continued to resist. You caused Eichorst enough trouble that he was forced to pursue you. Heroic.”

Carefully squeezing his hand, Dutch murmurs a thank you, tears starting in her eyes when the old man gives her a wink and adds, “Well done.”

Eph reaches her the box of Kleenex and sets them in front of her, reaching to rub her shoulder gently through the soft fabric of her sweatshirt. “I’m sorry…Dutch…if I’d known…I never would have even started that stupid plan. We were doomed from the outset.” It takes him a minute to realize he hasn’t updated anyone; too much going on. “He’s not dead. Palmer. I shot his assistant. Luckily , I didn’t kill her either.”

“My god.” Nora is serving the soup into a bowl. “Who told you that?”

“He did. Right after the cop took Dutch out of there, Palmer turned up.”

“Surprise, surprise…” Fet puts in, plucking a clean spoon and a napkin off the counter and following Nora to the table. “He say anything helpful?”

“Same old bullshit.” Eph growls. “We’re losers. They’re winners. He always gets what he wants. Blah, blah, blah.”

Nora’s huff is pure dismissal. “He didn’t get what he wanted this time. You’re both alive.” Everyone at the table can feel her attention sharpen on the younger woman. “Dutch? Are you all right?”

It seems a little childish saying it, when so many worse things could have happened, so she waves a hand and says, “No…I’m fine. My foot just hurts a touch.” 

“Oh, you stepped on something right? Left foot?” Eph slides his chair back and reaches down for her slim bare foot, glad for any opportunity to make up for his part in the whole fucked up fire drill this day has been.

“It wasn’t bad.” She’s trying to get her foot back with no success at all. “I’m sure I’m fine.”

“That’s what the people on the plane thought too.” he chides, cupping her heel in his hand and pressing her toes up toward her chin with the other. “That hurt?”

“Not really. I’m…Owww!”

“That must be the spot.” Eph pulls a tissue and applies pressure for a long second. “Get the bag, Nora?”

As she heads up the stairs, Eph lifts a little more, moving the tissue and taking a look. “Want to grab me a dishtowel Fet?”

“Are you gonna bleed me or something?” Dutch is staring at him, her face white. “This isn’t the Middle Ages, you know.”

“I’m going to put your foot on the table.” Which he does, once the folded towel is beneath it. “And the towel will keep it from sliding around while I work. Okay?”

As long as she doesn’t have to see it. “okay…”

“It was a carpet tack right? Did you get it out?” 

He’s prodding again, but very judiciously, and she realizes that he’s probably a really good doctor, even though his personality isn’t always the best, and she should relax. “Yes. Right then.”

Yelping, she grabs for Fet’s arm as Eph squeezes her foot and then grabs another tissue. “You got most of it out anyway. Some debris in there.”

Nora returns with a handled nylon bag that looks like a magazine premium, except it has a big white cross on it, and unzips it on the table, spreading out alcohol wipes, ointment and bandages. “Eph? Tdap?”

“Definitely.” He rips open a wipe. “Might sting a little.” 

It actually hurts quite a bit as the alcohol works its way into the wound, but she’s more concerned with Nora’s little handful as she turns from the refrigerator; a syringe, a needle, and a lovely little silvery vial of something. “What’s that then? Something you two cooked up in the lab?”

“It’s Tdap, tetanus vaccine.” Nora hands Dutch the tiny chilly bottle. “No telling what you might have stepped in up there.”

“And with a hole in your foot…a pretty deep hole, as a matter of fact…” The bandage, liberally coated with antibiotic, is taped expertly in place, and Eph leans back to admire his work. “You gotta have a shot.”

“Unless you’ve had one in the last ten years.” Fet says, smiling at her. “Believe me, I know the drill. You wouldn’t believe the shots the city made me get every year.”

Dutch nods and hands the vial back. “I don’t remember ever getting shots.”

“Probably because you had them all before you were six. Most people do.” Nora unwraps the needle and attaches it to the syringe in a couple of quick movements, stripping the protective top off the vial as well.

Eph tears open another alcohol wipe and cleans his hands. “How much you weigh, Dutch?”

“Rather a forward question, Dr. Nosy.”

Eph is giving her that same look he turned on her during the bonobo debate. “Well, unless you want me to give you enough for ten tall, cool blondes…”

“One-forty…I…”

“One-thirty, tops.” Fet breaks in. “After fourteen floors, I know the difference.”

Nora’s cool voice stops any retort Dutch might have been thinking of making. “Doesn’t matter.” She’s drawing up the vaccine slowly. “I was going to go a little light on it until we can get back to Wally’s lab and get the rest of his supplies. Right or left, Dutch? Arm.”

“Left.”

The needle doesn’t sting as much as the tack did, but the fluid feels like a warm little lump under her skin, and she has a moment of screaming willies as she thinks about Eichorst leaving his worms in her, just like this.

Then Fet clenches his fist, flexing his forearm under her grasping hand, breaking her out of her mind. “Eat your soup sweetheart.”

Several bites in, Dutch realizes she’s really quite hungry, adding some crackers from the open box in the center of the table to her dinner and quieting her rumbling stomach. Apparently the professor actually had his hand on the Lumen today, and he recounts what the man he’d met as a little boy in Austria told him. 

“We must continue the search. That book is the single most important weapon we have against the Master. We must find it. Before Palmer gets hold of it and destroys it.”

“We’ll start again tomorrow.” Fet assures him quietly. “We’ll go see Creem. Anyone knows where something is, and how much you can sell it for, it’s him.” Turning his attention to his lovely partner, who is staring into her water glass, he nudges her arm. “Want to come with?”

“What? Oh…um…the book. Sure. I don’t know how much use I’ll be…but…”

“No one would blame you if you wanted to…” Fet stumbles for a moment and she can tell he’s trying to convey that if she wants to back away, stay out of the fray for a while, no one will have a problem with that.

“Listen. I know you’re all wondering. He had this little room there…with a chain and a collar…” Their stillness makes her wonder what was said while she was in the shower, but she continues after a sip of water. “He made that cop that brought me there swallow a lot of Schnapps, then he stung him, so he was a little drunk, I guess. He wasn’t as alert as usual. So I got the cop’s mace, after Eichorst killed him, and when he came back to really get down to it, I used it on him. That’s how I got loose. Then as I was trying to get out of the building, the cavalry arrived.”

There must have been more than that to it, and everyone around the table knows it, but that she’s able to tell that much of it already is a good sign.

“Well, the cavalry’s tired.” Nora stands up and takes her bowl, moving to set it in the sink. “We all need some rest.”

“I agree.” Setrakian is up and heading to his room. “Good night all.”

“C’mon…” Fet nudges Dutch’s arm again. “Let’s get you to bed.”


	5. Chapter 5

Dutch pauses at the threshold as Vasya steps into his room and flips on the light. They’ve not slept together since the night before they rediscovered Nikki. Not even in the way she slept with him, purely for warmth and safety, when they were only friends. The last thing she needs right now is the awkward struggle to sleep in the same bed as far apart as possible. Because they won’t. As soon as they fall asleep, they’ll get all tangled. Which would be wonderful, but also probably more awkward than ever.

“I…” she begins.

“No...” he growls, tossing the covers back, “…you sleep here. I’ll just grab a pillow and go sleep on the couch.”

“No you’re not.” This day can’t have been easy for him either, and though he’d never ask, she’s well aware that he wants togetherness as much as she does. Not to mention that he is, hands down, a supreme cuddler. The best. In the universe. Ever. “We’re sharing.” 

His grip on the pillow is the only thing communicating his tension as he turns around and gives her that smile she adores. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

One of the things she has loved about Fet since they met is that he doesn’t dwell. If she’d had the same conversation with Nikki, they’d have gone on with the back and forth until someone got angry, most likely her, and ended it with some kind of outburst. He just drops his pillow back into place and sits down on his side, starting to untie his boots.

It’s so utterly normal that tears sting her eyes again at the thought that she might have lost this completely tonight, she might have spent this time huddled in the corner of Eichorst’s little white room while the worms worked their way through her and she slowly turned away from humanity.

Arms wrapped tight around herself, she covers her mouth with one trembling hand as Vasya stands and strips off his shirts, tossing them toward the laundry basket. He’ll stretch now. That full body one of his that goes from his feet all the way up to massive flexing hands. He looks less like a man and more like a humongous restive panther in mid lounge when he does it, and she smiles through her tears at the pleased grumble he voices when his neck gives several satisfying pops.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?” His back to her, hands at his belt, he’s unbuckling. These Calvins are a deep maroon, and she’s hit with a swell of feeling that has nothing to do with sex, only with the desire to this possess this quiet domesticity every night for the rest of her life.

Brushing the tears quickly away with her sleeve, she slips her own clothing down and off, folding it into the bedside chair. “I’m…alright, I guess.” 

The underwear is gone when she looks up, and he’s standing naked, emptying his pockets onto the nightstand, making sure that huge Colt that he’s taken to carrying is within reach. “Sleep will help.”

_If only…_ her mind whispers as she heads to the washstand in the corner to brush her teeth.

Bathroom business completed, she slides under the covers while he washes up, listening to the slow creaks and rustles of everyone settling in to their respective beds. Then the light snaps off and she tries to control the wild urge to run as Vasya moves closer in the dark. That picture of Eichorst, slithering in the window like a nightmarish snake lodges in her mind and she strangles the covers, eyes slammed shut. 

The bed dips, and she shudders painfully, even when he whispers, “Hey…hey…it’s just me, dushen’ka.”

“I know that…” she grits out. “I truly do. It’s just the dark…and I can’t stop bloody _thinking_ about it.”

The bed dips some more and she feels him fetch up next to her on his side and prop himself on his elbow. “Stay calm…” he murmurs, placing his palm flat over her rabbiting heart. “…and let yourself think.”

Her worst fears bubble to the surface and she gulps in air. “But who knows what might’ve happened? Who knows where I might be, _what_ I might be now if I hadn’t gotten out?”

His mustache brushes her cheek like an eyelash kiss. “Follow that thought.” 

_“What?_ Why would I want to do that?”

“Take it all the way to the end.”

Drawing a deep breath, she does so, tears flooding her eyes. “I’d be a worm now.”

“That didn’t happen. Right?”

That’s absolutely true and it blinks like neon in her mind. “No.”

His hand seems to gain weight and she realizes he’s pressing very gently, drawing her attention to her beats per minute, getting her to internalize. “And it can’t happen. Right?”

“No it can’t. But what if…” She doesn’t dare say anything about what Eichorst was likely trying to do to her without drinking her. That would get Fet up and dressed and out hunting, searching until he cut the German into small dice.

“What if what?” He hums softly against her cheek. “If you don’t want to tell me, don’t. But think it through. And then tell yourself that it didn’t happen. It can’t happen. Do it now.”

This time the weeping is angry and defiant, but she manages to get through to the bitter end. She’d be some sort of carrier, like a pod, waiting to…she can’t even couch it in terms of giving birth, more like exploding. But it didn’t happen. And it can’t. Not now.

Dutch feels his smile on her bare shoulder as her heart slows from its racing a second time. “Good girl. Keep going. Every bad thing.”

So she does, chasing all the loss and pain and heartache, pinning it down and pushing it out.

“Where did you learn to do that?” she murmurs eventually, laying her hand over his larger one, still resting quietly on her chest.

“Well, I was a child with an overactive imagination…”

Dutch nods. “Me too. Lots of onlys are.”

“I would lie in bed and all kinds of unpleasant shit would run through my head. I’d hide in the corner with my blanket and just cry. Then my mother would come.”

“What’s she like?”

“Mama? She’s fierce. And sweet and strong and opinionated…”

“Like you only smaller?” Dutch giggles softly. “I hope.”

“About five-three of pure energy. With that same imagination. So she would pick me up, put me back in bed, then lie down next to me and tell me to let my mind go. She would stay with me until I started to get control of it, and then tell me the things that used to live in her head when she was small.”

“Like?”

His big shoulders shrug. “Like what would happen if the Americans used their bombs on Russia. Or if her father got sent for re-education. He had an overactive imagination too – he wanted people to stop telling him the system was always right.” 

“Questioning authority? Also sounds a lot like you.”

“So I come by it honestly anyway.” He presses gently, once more. “Feel better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He’s moving away to lie down. “You’re welcome. Now you should get some rest.”

That big hand leaves her and she feels awfully cold and terribly alone. The conflict that’s been raging in her for days remains unsettled, she has no right to him, she knows that full well. But the only thought in her head is that she loves every single thing this man is, good, bad and just plain old average, and she reaches a finger to his lips.

Not a word is spoken as they begin to kiss, Dutch tugging the covers out from between their bodies so she can get all the contact possible, pressing close until her breasts flatten to his darkly furred chest and their hipbones collide. Tongues brush and thrust, hands explore and linger to caress, and she pants a soft moan against his shoulder when he slips his fingers between her thighs.

_My god, his hands_ … she thinks, and has to seal her mouth to his hard neck to stifle her cries as he strokes her softness, fingertip teasing her entry tenderly with every pass.

Then he’s growling, his other hand tangling in her hair, and she realizes he’s impatient with her silence, gently turning her head, lifting her chin so he can hear her pleasure as his mouth dips to the crests of her breasts and his fingers slide deep into her sleek warmth.

Every shared moan, every gasp, every soft indrawn whimper spurs them on, but when Dutch feels him move further down, she stills his hand and stokes his nape, drawing him upward, lifting her knees, maneuvering until she can wrap her legs around his hips.

The side table rocks as he pulls the drawer out and finds a condom by feel alone, rolling to his hip to tear it open and put it on. Dutch grabs the wrapper and tosses it over the side, reaching to stroke his belly and his chest and his shoulders as he moves above her.

Her hips are lifted in those sexy hands, and a low growl of triumph fills her ears as he enters her in one long, powerful thrust. The rhythm is strong and slow and delicious; meeting and drawing apart, over and over again. 

Neither of them are aware of anything outside of their embrace as they spiral upward, clinging to one another, bodies working in a kind of glorious unison that they both know is something special, a feeling so rare its endangered. 

They both want it to last forever, but the friction is too good, the roll and release of their hips too perfect. Hot tremors sizzle through her body, her orgasm building, and Dutch begins to cry out, feeling Vasya rock her bottom higher, using his weight to hold her there and intensify his thrust until the feeling becomes too big for even their joined bodies to contain it.

Climax welds them, body and soul, ecstasy so profound it whites out their senses flooding through them, sending them over into the halfway, more one than either of them ever imagined was possible.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

_Did that even happen?_ is Vasya’s first thought when he slides the pocket doors open the next morning and finds Dutch sitting on his desk, his sketchbook in her hands and tears in her eyes. 

He’d left her asleep on his pillow to shower and dress, then to make her breakfast. He started the coffee when he heard her stirring, expecting her to appear. But nothing…so… “How you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Good.” He says nothing at all about whatever part he might have played in that feeling; clearly it wasn’t anything she finds worth mentioning.

“I was about to write you a note, but I couldn’t figure out exactly how to say what I wanted to say.”

A spike of terror so cold it stuns him drives into his heart. Even in his limited romantic experience, note writing is never good. But the pain on her face is so evident that he hides his own, giving her a calm smile. “Good thing I’m here.”

When he sits, she leaps up, pacing toward the bed, her voice quavering as she tells him how certain she’d been that the only way out of the snare she’d found herself in was death. “…and then you came.”

_Damn right I did. Just the thought of you being so alone and afraid almost killed me._ “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I have been such an utter shit to you!” 

He wants to yell back at her; wants to tell her that she can rant all she likes, she can tell him to go to hell until she’s blue in the face, but none of it will change the way he feels. But he holds it down. Escalating is a mistake with this woman. So he pushes the anger away with a laugh. “That’s no reason to let you die.”

And there she goes, back to the one note she just keeps playing. “You are such a better person than I am.” 

There’s really nothing he dislikes hearing more than this ancient piece of bullshit. “Aren’t you being a little hard on yourself?” Of course she is, that’s what she does, but he’s hoping that one of the times he points it out, she’ll finally be able to listen.

“Am I? Because I’m going to walk out on a man that risked his life for me…”

The spike in his heart explodes in tiny shards of icy agony, and he tries to keep the effects off his face, hearing her say that she knows he loves her, she does know that not despite her imperfections, but because of them, he loves her. Always.

He watches her wipe her eyes, gathering her strength for the next bombshell, and he wishes he could tell her how proud he is of her, how far she’s come from the snotty bitch she’d been that first night in Queens. She’s turned into such a force, this woman, so beautiful, so much life. Life he won’t get to be part of anymore. 

“I’m going to be with Nikki. I have to try to make something real…with her.”

“I hope you do…” Much as it breaks his heart, he means this with every fiber of his being. She should get to the sweet water if anyone should. So he has to let her go without recriminations, without causing her any pain. He owes her that. Getting to his feet, he moves to stand in front of her and speaks straight from the center of his heart. “I want that for you.”

She gives him that huff, that elegant little snort that is so essentially her. “You don’t make it easy do you?”

Nothing about this has been easy, and he’s damned near certain that that won’t change. Not for quite a while at least. She knows that as well as he does. 

Her bag is light, taking nothing but what she came with. Except of course for that little piece of his heart that will always be hers. He doesn’t want that back anyway. He holds the knapsack out and tells her the truest thing he knows. “Nothing good comes easy.”

She’s in his arms then, pushed up on her toes, mouth pressed to his, kissing him breathless. Because he couldn’t help it even if he wanted to, he kisses her back, squeezing her tight, hoping she knows he’ll always be here if she needs him, if she wants him, if she misses him, all she has to do is come home.

He doesn’t have any reason to hope as she presses a final kiss to his lips and takes off, but crazily enough, even though he misses her like fire already, there’s a tiny part of him that’s refusing to give up. 

It takes him a minute to realize that it’s not a piece of himself he’s listening to, it’s a parting gift from her. Turns out they traded a piece of their hearts.


End file.
